Free Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel by Ronda Thompson

Tom Dawson,” I say. “I have no idea where he is. He was the star football player for our high school team. As you saw by the picture, he wouldn’t have been interested in a girl like me.”
    While I lie like a son, or daughter, or whatever, of a bitch to Kane, I hope I’ve developed enough facial reaction skills during my modeling career to look truthful.
    â€œThen where did you get the money to have the plastic surgery, and why did you run away to begin with?”
    I’m not on trial. At least not yet. “None of this is really any of your business,” I remind him. “All I want is for you to find my birth parents. I had a little work done. It wasn’t that expensive.” More lying. “I was a late bloomer, also. It’s not that I don’t want anyone from Texas to know who I am; it’s that I don’t have a good relationship with my adoptive parents and we parted on bad terms. I changed my name before I started modeling. I wanted a fresh start. Can we drop this now and get back to the real issue?”
    Kane stares at me from across the desk. His eyes are not actually muddy brown. They’re more the color of whiskey. Which is ironic. This whole situation is my fault. I had responded when he called me Sherry on the phone. I should have played dumb instead of hanging up in a panic like I did.
    â€œOkay,” he finally says. “What information will you give me that I don’t have to go digging to find?”
    I’d sigh in relief if Kane wouldn’t pounce on that reaction, as well. “I have the name of the agency I was adopted through. The agency claims all their files are sealed. They also say they would have to have written permission from the birth mother to release the information. They supposedly have no known location for her.”
    â€œTypical response,” Kane says. “And that is why people hire private investigators.”
    As much as it irks me, I came prepared. Lifting my beauty bag, I remove fifteen thousand dollars in cash. I place it on his desk. “That should get you started. One rule. Don’t contact my adoptive parents. Like I said, we parted on bad terms and neither of us wants anything to do with the other. Got that?”
    â€œMakes my job harder, but yeah, I got it.” He slides the money across the desk and into the same drawer where he keeps his whiskey. He looks at me and shakes his head again.
    â€œWhat?” I ask tersely.
    â€œI just wonder how much of what I see is what I get with you.”
    I rise. “Stop wondering. You’re not getting any of me.”
    He laughs as I walk toward the door.
    â€œI’ll be in touch.”
    Not a comforting thought. I have a feeling I just opened a can of worms I’d be better off to have left buried.

CONFESSION NO. 6
    Forrest Gump’s mother had a lot of catchy sayings. I never really understood any of them. Life is not like a box of chocolates. Life is more like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of your favorite pair of shoes. The more you try to clean up the mess, the stickier it becomes.
    Manolo Blahnik on Fifty-fourth is heaven on earth. Just the smell of fine leather footwear soothes my battered soul. I’m living in the moment, leaving everything behind. No worries about werewolf outbreaks. No pictures of murder victims being thrust at me. No nightmares. No Morgan Kane sniffing around in places he shouldn’t sniff. Just shoes. Mules. Pumps. Sandals. Like I said. Heaven.
    â€œWhat do you think of these, Lou?”
    Karen models a pair of red Mary Jane pumps with three-inch heels. The heels make her look about six eight. Karen is six two and proud of it. Height is not an issue with her. She dates tall men, short men, fat men, skinny men, it doesn’t matter. I’ve even seen her dancing with men who appear to be suckling at her breasts because of the height issue. I admire her for not giving a damn. I, in contrast, give too